Deluge: The 91st Hunger Games
by Emp. Mercury I
Summary: "I'm so scared of burning - I never thought I'd drown."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Anything you recognize is owned by Suzanne Collins and any third party license holders.**

 **Hey everyone! After about six years of reading fics for THG and dreaming of writing my own, I'm finally doing it. Please enjoy.**

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I breathe in, out. The pattern is repetitive, matching the motions of my hands as I work – crouch, gather. Pluck. One, two, three cherries from one stalk. Four from the other. The dull plop of them into my basket, already teeming with red fruit. Stand up. Move on. Someone else will get the rest.

The sun is hard and heavy on my back. Seventeen years and I already have the sunspots that my father has, at forty five summers. We don't get reprieve from the sun. It culls the gaps between the shade trees. Worms its way through like water through soil. If we don't have sun, there is rain, and the rain is almost worse.

Dusk is quick, The sky melts grey blue, and red fire, and before it can turn black I heft my basket onto my hip and stalk back through the row of trees to the processing plant. Before dawn breaks tomorrow, the women will all sit in rows in the processing plant and begin the endless work of pulling the coffee bean from the cherry. There must be machines to do this work, somewhere, but here all we have are our bare hands.

I would be joining those women tomorrow - my usual shift, sector 5, seated between #25 and #27 - if it wasn't for the reaping. All of us – age twelve to eighteen – are spared a day of work so we can take the long drive up north to District 11's capital. Not an official capital, but where the Justice Building is. We are far enough down south that only the children go, and us older ones are tasked with comforting the younger ones, keeping them quiet, getting all of us fed. Sometimes parents come, too, but only the parents of the twelve year olds, and after that we learn to say our goodbyes at home. There's not much to say goodbye to, anyways.

In my seventeen years, not one child from my small plantation town has been Reaped. Not when there are thousands of others in the district. It has made us a little bit invincible, I think. The Capitol cannot touch us – at least through the Hunger Games. They are plenty cruel otherwise. Still lax though, compared to what I have heard of the rest of the district. Factory fires and public executions in some of the larger towns. Especially where the majority of us are dark skinned, and the Capitol not, and they have not forgotten they can look down on us.

Nobody packs anything for the trip to the Justice Building. We need no district tokens. Maybe we would need something to remind us of home, but memories are plenty enough for that. Nobody packs food, either. There is a crate of fruit on the bed of the truck, and we'll reach the Justice building by early morning tomorrow. Usually, none of us want to eat before the reaping. There's enough fruit on the way back. And the van is home in time for dinner, where the children come back to the bonfire and laughter of a feast to celebrate another year of invincibility.

The van leaves soon. It's parked in the middle of town – I can see its hulking shape, dressed in tarpaulin, as I make my way down the path that leads back to town.

Here, our town is barely a set of sloping shanties melting over each other, made of mud and bricks and corrugated metal, with wood and coal fires out back for our kitchens, and all of us huddled together on the earth floor at night. Compared to the houses the Peacekeeper outpost is stark and bright, made of concrete and glass and metal that glistens in the afternoon sun. It makes everything seem smaller somehow, even the giant rainforest trees that grow to ten times my height. We can see it even from the plantation. We may have a simple life, and we might be even happy about it at times, but nobody can remember that for long with the outpost right there to make us forget.

Peacekeepers stalk back and forth by the truck. There is only one truck this year. It's bigger, though. There is more space in the bed, but we still have to be packed in without an inch of space. We like it like that. Better to be surrounded by friends than alone in comfort. Better to surround yourself with people who care before you're sent off to death.

I trudge back home, in the narrow space between two walls of shanties. The thresholds of our houses face each other, covered by threadbare curtains. Tattered tire tread makes a doormat, lets us wipe our boots free of mud. There is a hurricane lamp hanging by the door, the light soft and flickering in the humidity. I take it down from its peg and push the curtain to our house aside. Step in.

"Al?" My brother might be sleeping, but I call out just to make sure. I can see the lump of his body bunched under a blanket in the corner. Alsike is seven, years away from his first Reaping. He won't need to worry about anything until he's at least Aster's age.

Aster himself is probably out with his friends. He's always late to the truck, him and his friends making a leap for the truck bed just as it roars to life. Last year he nearly missed, nearly got left behind, but a Peacekeeper managed to grab him by the collar and haul him up, shove him onto the pile of children. Aster missed his punishment by an inch. The truck doesn't stop for anyone.

"Al," I call again, and this time my little brother stirs. He's up in a second when he sees me, scurrying over to wrap around my leg, trailing the blanket behind him. He looks at me with his wide brown eyes, too big for his face, straggler curls winding down his cheeks. I'll cut his hair myself when I get back from the Reaping. For now, it blooms around his head like a black halo.

He bites his thumb. "Avan. Are you leaving?" I crouch to meet his eyes, smooth my thumbs across his cheek.

"Yeah," I say. "Where's Papa?" Papa is a teacher at the schoolhouse, but in the evenings he goes to work, too. Alsike shrugs. I don't ask where Aster is; Al wouldn't know anyway.

The horn of the truck blares. I have ten minutes, maybe less. I give Al a kiss on the forehead and stand up, but he grabs at my leg again.

"Avan, buy me something from the city?" He bites his lip as he feels in his pocket for something that he presses into my hand, and I look down to see a small, flat stone, about the size of a coin and thin enough to pass for one. It's wrapped halfway in tinfoil. "See? I have money."

I grin. "This will get you a whole bag of sweets!" I pry him off my leg to hold his hand and his eyes go comically wide. "You'll get something, won't you, Avan?"

"Of course. I'll be back tomorrow night with a bag just for you," I say, and I will. What are the odds of being reaped? Near zero, if you think about it. Not many in the town take tesserae. The forest around the plantation provides plenty to forage, there are birds to hunt, and there's enough money to buy grain. We have it easy here.

Al lets go of my leg and gives me a toothy grin. I grin back. Then I slip into the little side room that we put our stuff in, pull the curtain across the doorway, and pull off my muddy work clothes. There's a tiny bucket of water and a washcloth and I hurry, scrubbing myself clean as best I can. I'm going to get dirty in the truck, I know it. I pat myself dry and pull out my Reaping dress – the only dress I own. It's a nice mustard yellow with white flowers, a high collar, slightly loose around my hips and tight around my shoulders. It used to be my mother's, before she died.

The dress has a pocket and I slip Al's stone inside before I hurry out, hanging the lamp up as I go. Al is sleeping already.

Outside, the rest of the kids are getting ready to leave. There aren't many of us, more than fifty but less than seventy. I don't know how many are new this year. Even within this group, my odds of being Reaped are minimal. Still, it's nearly as hard to imagine some other kid, just like me, from another tiny orchard town just like mine, being sent to their death. Seeing their face on the scheduled broadcast every day for a month until they're lost forever or – by some stroke of fate – come back.

But the odds of coming back are nearly as small as the odds of being reaped. District 11 hasn't had a Victor since Thresh in the 74th. That was the year I was born. Seventeen years with no Victor – it kind of puts things in perspective.

As I approach the town center, I look around for my friends – Rosa and Cicer. Rosa is nineteen; she's past her last Reaping. I imagine she's as relieved as she can be. All of Rosa's siblings are older, so she doesn't have anyone to worry about, either.

Cicer's a different story. Five sisters, all Reaping age or younger, and a father who's a little too generous with his drink. Her odds are the same as mine, but the stakes are so much higher.

I spot Cicer helping her sisters into the truck bed. Little Calla is wide-eyed and biting her nails as she clambers up next to Cassia, who's already settled in, clutching a blanket and pushed close to the wall of the truck. Cicer lifts herself up, then reaches her hand out for me.

She slings her arm over my shoulder. I know she's worrying about her sisters, but there's no sign of that worry on her face.

"You ate?" I ask, for some conversation.

She nods. "Yeah, ate out on the fields. Break was near the end of our shift."

"Good." I take her hand in mine. It's shaking, just a bit. The truck honks again – five minutes.

"I'm going to go get Aster," I say, and roll off the truck bed. "Won't be long." Rosa passes by as I leave; she gives me a little wave. She won't be coming.

I break into a jog, heading past the shanties and down by the Peacekeeper outpost, where the river is. "Aster!" I yell. I can hear muffled laughter and voices behind the trees. Pushing past the brush, I slow as I reach the clearing behind the outpost. Aster and his friends – all older than him, half of them are out of the Reaping – are clustered around something. One of the boys is crouching, pushing at the something with a stick.

I come up behind Aster and yank him away by the shoulder, catching a glimpse of whatever they're looking at. It's some kind of rodent mutt. Bigger than a bandicoot, about the size of a dog, with two curved front teeth and black mangy fur and red eyes. Someone has speared it through the brain with a shard of metal.

At my arrival, their muttering dies down. "Truck's leaving," I say shortly, and start back the way I came, Aster following sullenly. Papa's always said they were a bad crowd. Aster is only fifteen, but already I've heard that he joins his friends when they go for drinks. There's not much we can do short of keeping him from leaving the house, but he has to work.

"Look, you've gotten your Reaping clothes dirty," I frown at him. They're Papa's, the pants rolled up and shirt far too big. The pink fabric has mud stains on it.

He scowls at me. "No one cares, anyhow." I give him a glare, letting him hop on to the truck before I get on, settling next to Cicer, who has saved us a little room.

The truck rumbles to life, and then we are off.

I take a look back. There's a tiny chance – minuscule – that I might never see this place again. Never be back in the hot wet jungle that surrounds us, never work under the plantation shade trees that have sheltered us for so long. Never see Al and Papa again.

I look away, because I have faith that I'll be back.

The truck thunders down the road, which is narrow and unpaved, so mud scrapes at the tires and sticks to the walls of the bed. We are thrown around with every bounce, but so used to it that we can sit loosely and chat, or play hand games, or eat. I decide to sleep. Lean my head on Cicer's shoulder. Calla curls up in my lap. Soon enough I'm drifting off.

* * *

I wake when the truck stops. Sunlight is bright and harsh on my face, not filtering through the trees like I'm used to. Someone has pulled the tarp off the truck. Everyone else is waking up, bleary and unsettled, but soon enough we're awake, because there are three Peacekeepers coming our way, shouting for us to move on.

We disembark in a flood, winding through the streets to the main square. The buildings are nice here, brick farmhouses and wooden cabins, neat shopfronts with bright awnings. The street is cobbled; our shoes scrape against as we pass.

The main square is packed, despite us arriving early. Adults ring the edges. Children are shoved together in sections, neatly in rows like in the orchard.

Cicer puts her hand on her sisters' shoulders to guide them towards the registration. "Calla's first year," she says. "I'm more worried than I should be."

"Look around," I gesture to the crowd around us. "One in a million. You have nothing to worry about."

Cicer smiles at me, a little softer, but I can still see tension in her neck.

Everyone settles into their sections. I'm surrounded by people I don't know, hundreds of faces, dark-skinned like mine but with no other familiar features, eyes passing over me and Cicer like we pass over them. I bunch my hands in the fabric of my dress.

There's a small fanfare, and then our escort strides onto stage. Saffron is viciously flamboyant. Bright red hair like a rooster plume above pale skin, golden lips, a bright orange skintight pantsuit and heels that must be taller than my head.

"Welcome," she smiles, sickly-sweet, and I tune out. I'm staring at the glass Reaping ball on her left. Filled to the brim with tiny slips of paper. My name is there six times. Cicer's another six. Aster's thrice, Calla's once, Cassie's twice. Maybe another two hundred entries total from my town. That's not so small a number as I thought. The chance that someone I know is going into the Games this year becomes a nagging thought.

The speakers burst into the informational video. I'd managed to tune out the Mayor Heathstone's speech – nothing new in that, anyhow. I clench my teeth until the video is over and the booming music dies out.

The silence is far too loud now. I can hear the clacks of Saffron's heels as she stalks to the bowl I've been boring holes in with my gaze. "Our lovely ladies first!"

Suddenly I want to throw up.

"Calla Stace!"

It's Calla. Of all the people in this District, it's Calla. Next to me Cicer is blinking, like she's waiting for another Calla Stace to trudge up the stairs. Then she sees Calla start to walk and it hits her. I see her mouth start to take the shape of the words that will send her instead.

My arm moves of its own accord and I clamp my hand over her mouth. The words tumble out of me instead.

"I volunteer!" I shout. I have to stretch to make myself heard across the full square. "I volunteer as tribute!"

On stage, Saffron is squinting at me. Her face breaks into a grin and she beckons, and in front of me the crowd parts like a sea, the path ahead an eternity in length. I start the walk. It must take less than a minute, but to me it feels like hours. Every eye trained on me. Every breath waiting – who is this girl? Why did she do it?

I ascend the steps to the stage. In the morning light, my dress looks so plain and old next to the escort's bright flamboyance.

She holds the mic out to me. "Your name, darling?"

"Avan," I manage to get out. "Avan Brunnel." And then it's over; I can't go back.

Saffron takes my hand and raises it above my head. "Avan Brunnel! Your Tribute for the Ninety-First Hunger Games!"

The crowd doesn't cheer. Some people applaud – the Peacekeepers, the Mayor, a few of the older adults. Other than that I'm met with silence.

The rest of the Reaping passes in a blur. Saffron stalks over to the boy's bowl, draws the name.

"Ree Grover."

I don't know a Ree Grover, thank the gods, but he comes out of the stands and a pang of something hits me. He looks so young. Maybe Aster's age. I don't know him, but I do now. I will know him when we go into the Games. I will know him when he dies.

He comes up on stage, sullen, but behind that I see the tightness in his cheeks. Likely holding back a flood of tears. At least he isn't throwing up. The girl tribute from Six did that last year, was dubbed the laughingstock of the Games. Not a path anyone wants to go down.

No cheers for Ree, either. Somewhere I can hear loud sobbing – his mother, maybe. I almost want to cry too, but I feel like a corpse already.

They grab us by the shoulder, usher us into the Justice Building. On the way I pass the three Victors of our district: Thresh, looking down at the floor, Chaff, passed out on a chair, Lark, looking as bored as she can to hide the fact that the vein in her jaw is pulsing.

They say you don't really come back from the Games. That was what Chaff said in his Victory interview. I think he lost more than just his hand. I've heard he lost his family, too – back then, rebellion was in the air like smoke from bombs. Chaff turned to full-out drink ever since Thresh won and he didn't have to mentor anymore.

I'd pity him, but pity gets you nowhere.

I just hope I don't lose anything to the Games, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh man, the words just keep coming. This is one of the longest chapters I've written. Thanks so much to my two reviewers from chapter one! I wasn't expecting any readers for a while at least. Hope I don't disappoint.**

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They bundle us into the Justice building, the Peacekeepers, with iron grips on both my shoulders. I want to run, to fight off their burly hands, but I grit my teeth and go where they guide me – down the foyer, one right turn and through a towering pair of mahogany doors. I haven't even left the District and I've never seen so much luxury in my life. The doors swing open to let us through, and the Peacekeeper lets go of my arm to gesture me to a chair.

He closes the doors behind him.

I'm alone. Surrounded by such opulence I feel sick. The floor is rich gold veined marble, the wall trim a matching gold. Deep wine-red drapes hang floor-to-ceiling over the windows. The chair I'm sitting on is made of some rare, deep red wood, the cushion in matching wine-colored velvet.

I don't know how long I sit on my hands. Waiting. Then the doors open again, and it's Cicer peeking through, tentatively, probably as intimidated by the luxury as I am. Calla and Cassie are tucked under her arm. Someone barks for them to enter.

I stand up to greet them, tears finally pricking at my eyes. The doors slam shut. Cicer races forward for me, gathering me in a hug so tight I feel like I might disintegrate.

She pulls away to lean her head on my shoulder. "Why, Avan? I would've- she's my sister-"

"Shhh," I whisper as Calla latches herself onto my leg. "Better me than you. Your family needs you, Cice."

Cicer is dripping tears into the fabric of my reaping dress. Sobbing thoroughly now. "I could have made it back, couldn't I?"

"Better me than you," I say again, and we both know it's true. I look over Cice's lean frame and five-foot height, think of the way she coughs uncontrollably when she walks for too long. Next to me, she looks even smaller. "Besides, Papa can manage Al and Aster without me," I say, pulling her close again. "You're all they have."

I think she's resigned herself to it now. It's not like I can take it back.

Cassie holds her sister, face stoic as she nods to me. Calla is still wrapped around my leg. "Come back," she says, eyes big and earnest. "For us."

"I'll do my best," I say, and kiss her forehead.

The doors burst open. The Peacekeeper's voice is monotone. "Time's up." And then they're taken away.

Aster is next. He walks in quietly, does nothing but grasp my hands tightly. Almost a minute passes before he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I say automatically.

"I should have stayed at home more. Helped you out instead of running off. Worked harder and earned more, maybe."

"That wouldn't have done anything to help the Reaping, Aster." I quirk a smile.

His face is still solemn. "I know. But I'll try my best until you come back, okay? I'll cook for Alsike and Papa and earn enough in the fields to support us. Maybe I'll try some heavy lifting."

I'm choking up again. "You do that, Aster." I don't bother correcting him – _if_ I come back. He might have to support them until Al is all grown up and then – when Papa is too old to work.

"I'll come back, I will," I tell him, and then I hold his hand and sit in silence until the Peacekeeper barges back in. Aster walks out and doesn't look back.

I know the farewells usually last an hour, for everyone to finish up. I expect some of the other Districts have tributes popular enough to get visitors all through the hour, but here in Eleven we usually keep to ourselves. I lean my head back on the chair and expect to wait out the rest of the time.

There's a knock on the door. I startle as it's pushed open to reveal a girl, maybe a couple of years younger than me. Her features are vaguely familiar, but I'm sure I don't know who she is.

"Hello," she ventures. "Avan Brunnel?"

"That's me," I answer warily.

She doesn't sit, just stands near the door. Her soft voice carries well enough for me to hear. "My name is Penny Fallow."

I recognize her when I hear the name. I remember seeing her face on the screen throughout last year's Games, clenched to hide tears as she stood with her mother. Holding her infant sibling. Last year's tribute from Eleven was eighteen-year-old Peri Fallow, victim of a drawn-out, vicious torture from the Two boy. All she did was poke out his eye when he tried to rape her. I don't know how Penny refrained from digging out his other one when he came by on the Victory tour.

"I think I know what you're here for," I say slowly.

She smiles. "He's mentoring this year. The newest Victor always does. If you get the chance, kill his tributes. Personally."

It smacks me in the face. I haven't thought about killing yet – I know I'll have to, but the thought is still foreign. Now I think of blood coating my hands. I think of avenging Peri Fallow – if Amadeus's tribute this year is just as cruel. I might not mind.

I nod to Penny.

"Make it hurt," she says, and smiles. Then she's gone.

The rest of the hour is as drawn out as I expected it to be. I close my eyes, try to think of nothing. Thoughts come unbidden. Do I have a strategy? Will I work with Ree? I wince, thinking of him. I wish I didn't know his name, so I could forget he's a person, and that he deserves to come out of this alive as much as anyone else. My motives are purely selfish. I am coming back home. I think I could make it.

When they push me out of the Justice Building, the square is empty. Today is a day off work – everyone's families will be gathered at home for a feast, happy they're safe for another year. Back home, they'll be organizing a night of dancing, expecting all of us will be coming home safe. I hope they don't break tradition this year just because I was reaped. They should celebrate losing only one child instead of two.

I'm packed into a car. I thought it would be like the truck – roaring and jerky – but the ride to the train station is surprisingly smooth. I'm alone in this car – the driver is separated with a partition so I can't see his – or her – face.

Since entering the Justice building I haven't seen anyone else. Not Ree, or Saffron, or even the mentors. I'd wanted to talk to them, if only just to take my mind off the fact that I'll be leaving the district within the hour. Leaving – and maybe never coming back.

The car pulls up at the railway station. The minute I open the door, there's a camera in my face.

Thresh comes to my rescue. This is the first I've seen of him since I passed him going into the Justice Building. He holds off the cameras with one hand while guiding me with the other.

"Smile," he mutters. I try, my face feeling stiff and odd. It's a good thing my tears have all dried.

The walk from the car to the train feels longer than it is. Ree is behind me. He seems to be hounded as much as I am. Finally the door to the train is sliding open and Thresh is pushing me in. The rest of the entourage – Ree, Lark, Chaff, and Saffron – follow. I don't have even a moment to gather myself before the train starts to move, slowly at first. Then a blur so fast I can't tell one thing from another.

"Well," Saffron says, clasping her hands. "Now that we're all here-"

"I'm going to have a drink," says Chaff, and vanishes into the next car. Saffron looks awfully put out. I almost feel bad for them. Chaff is probably no help with the Games. I can't blame him, though.

"Now that we're all here," Saffron repeats, slower. "I think we should take a moment to introduce ourselves."

Lark gives a barely-disguised roll of her eyes.

"Lovely! I am Aurelia Saffron, but please call me Saffron. I am your escort and greatly look forward to working with you during the Games!" She's so exaggerated, every movement and syllable made larger and louder than it should be. Her eyes, too, are huge. Surgically altered, probably.

"Lark Spencer," says Lark with no feeling after fifteen seconds of Saffron's delicate glaring.

Thresh says nothing. Poor Ree looks out of his depth. Saffron is slowly losing her enthusiasm.

"Avan and Ree?" She looks at us questioningly.

I nod tentatively.

Resignedly, Saffron turns and leads us to the doors that open into the next car, where Chaff disappeared moments ago. The minute they slide open, Ree gasps. I feel the same astonishment on my face.

I've never seen so much food in one place. Not even at the feast at home. A table runs along the wall, piled with dishes I never could have dreamed up. The smell is heavy in the air, but neither Saffron nor Thresh look tempted. Lark, however, is eyeing the table with something like disgust.

Ree's already made his way over to the table and is staring down one of the larger pots. I can single out the smell immediately. Some sort of meat stew, delicately spiced. There are rolls of bread piled next to the pot.

"Go on," Saffron encourages me. "It's all for you." I briefly wonder what they'll do with the food we don't end up eating. There's enough here to feed fifty people. I don't want to know. Likely it'll make me lose my appetite, and I want to enjoy this bounty while I can.

There's a table in the middle of the car, set for eight. I pick up a plate and move over to the table. Immediately a red-robed servant – an avox, I think – hurries over and stands beside me. I glance at him. He's staring straight ahead, not at me. When I reach out to spoon some of the meat stew onto my plate, he takes the ladle before I can and takes the plate to serve me.

"It's okay," I say cautiously. "I can do it myself." He gives me a pained sort of look, but backs off. I hope I haven't cost him anything.

My plate piles up. Some of the bread, something that looks like a salad, but with ingredients I've never seen and a kind of baked vegetable that's dripping with cream. Then some pastries – a flaky bread shiny with sugar syrup, a small gilded pot of rich brown cream.

I sit at the table, opposite Ree. Thresh sits at my side; Lark next to my District partner.

Before I can plunge into my meal, Thresh speaks up next to me. "I think you can work." Simple. It feels deeply encouraging, though I'm not sure how he means it. Does he mean we have a chance at winning the Games? Or that we can work together?

"Are we going to talk?" I venture, gingerly tearing at some bread. "Strategy, I mean."

Lark appraises me for the first time this afternoon. "Hmm. You're not bad. Tall, decent-looking. Where do you work? You look like a plantation girl to me."

"I am," I reply. "I work the fields and in the factory."

Lark nods like I've answered an important question. "Like I said, not bad. You've got some muscle on you. Must be decently fit. You got any skills?"

I pause. "Weapon skills?"

"Those aren't the only ones that matter." Thresh doesn't look up from his plate.

I know that well enough. "I'm …" I trail off. I don't know what to say.

"That's fine," says Lark, but she looks a little exasperated, like she's giving up on me already. "You can find out during training. Ree, what about you?"

He wastes no time. "I can climb and I can swim. And oh, I can run a lot too. I'm in the running club at school." He must be from one of the larger towns. I haven't heard of running clubs before.

Lark tries to look impressed, but I can tell what she's thinking, looking at him. He won't make it out. Not with his earnest, innocent face, his lean body, awkward gaze. Still, she carries on the conversation, listening to him talk on and on about his school and his friends and his mother.

Thresh doesn't say anything through the rest of the lunch. Once or twice he pauses his eating to stare thoughtfully straight ahead, but not for long.

I think I've overstuffed myself. My stomach, empty since morning, rolls and I think I might be a little sick. Still, I lick the last remnants of my dessert out of its cup. I've had cocoa before, but nothing as rich and sweet as this.

"Excuse me," I say, and get up.

"Going to rest?" Lark asks. "Your room is the next car over."

I thank her and move on. The cars are connected through a narrow flexible passage. When I stand on the bridge I can feel how fast the train must be going. My stomach pitches again and I hurry into the next car, pushing open the door. A plaque embossed with 'DISTRICT 11 FEMALE TRIBUTE' rests at eye level.

The room is just as luxurious as the rest of the train, but sleek and simple. My feet meet dark grey carpet, soft and springy. The walls are a soft white, and a single large bed takes up the most space, covered with a tan blanket and two large pillows. Across from me is a window that takes up the entire length of the room.

I see a door at the far end that must be a bathroom, and push it open. It is. It's also the fanciest bathroom I've ever been in. Figuring I might as well take a shower, I close the door behind me and it locks on its own.

I shed the Reaping dress. It's so dull compared to the Capitol-bright things I've seen today. Still, it's home, so I fold it and set it on the counter so I can ask someone to wash it. I pull off my undergarments and step into the shower.

A press of one button sends a jet of boiling hot water straight at my chest. I yelp and shut it off. Another button yields a flurry of soapy foam onto me. The bubbles melt and slide off. It takes me a few minutes to get a steady stream of water from the showerhead at the top of the stall. Another minute to get it from freezing cold to a bearable temperature. I hum as I clean off, one of the plantation songs that we sing to pass the time.

When I emerge, I look for one of my threadbare towels out of habit. Then I see a flashing light on the wall next to the shower door. When I place my hand on the square panel beside it, something runs through my hand and I'm dry from head to toe.

The Capitol must spend a fortune on just convenience.

I step out of the bathroom, taking a peek first to make sure nobody's there. I'm about to put my Reaping dress back on when I see a wall panel that's different from the rest. A closet? A touch on the side of the panel confirms it. It slides open to reveal a plethora of clothes, from fancy dresses in plastic garment bags to silk sleeping shorts.

I pull out a green cotton blouse and a pair of pants that remind me of the factory uniform – this not as drab a grey, but made of a similar thick material. They have undergarments in exactly my size, too. I'm tempted to ask Lark how they know.

After I dress, I pull open my room door to see if anyone's out, but the car is silent and I figure everyone must be in their rooms. Retreating, I head to the window. The bed is right against the wall, so I sit and press my face to the glass. I can't make anything out but the blur of colors is relaxing. The sun is still high up, reflecting off the ground so everything looks bright and unforgiving. The green has given way to browns and the occasional grey, so I imagine we must be passing through District Ten, provider of livestock. I wonder if their reaping has finished. Which two children will be joining me in the Arena. Which two children I might have to kill.

How many children have sat in this spot before me, thinking the same things? Peri Fallow would have used the same shower, opened the same closet. Did she sit on this bed imagining all the ways she could die, or did she want to try and fight? Lark would have been in this room once, too, nearly ten years ago. What was she like? The same cocky woman, or a girl terrified for her life?

I don't want to think about that. Peri Fallow, here, alive, with no knowledge of how she'd be killed. The eighty-seven female tributes since the beginning, on this train ride to their death. No, I don't want to think about it at all.

On the bedside table is a tiny panel – about the size of my hand. I pick it up, look around and spy the flat screen set in the far wall – a television! Back home we have clunky, preprogrammed ones - but only in the proper houses, not the shanties - that switch on and off whenever there's required viewing.

I switch this one on. It must be programmed to go straight to the Games channel, because I see Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith in the Capitol studio, and on a smaller inset screen I can see what can only be the Reaping. There are little banners running across the bottom of the screen – things like START SPONSORSHIPS NOW and REAPING ODDS.

Caesar laughs at something Claudius has said and the screen flashes with the words TRIBUTE RECAP. This is my competition. My stomach is turning, but this time with nerves.

District One's seal flashes on screen to reveal their town square. It's so covered in golden decorations that the sun reflecting off the stage is blinding. The people in the square look happy, even excited – but that's normal for a Career district.

I don't even catch the name the escort calls out for the girl because a voice is already shouting "I volunteer!" and the owner of the voice, a tall, lithe girl with platinum blonde, almost silver, hair is jogging up to claim her position. "Satin Garnett," she says sweetly into the mic before her escort can even ask her name.

The same thing happens on the boys' side. The escort starts to unfold the paper when a deep voice interrupts. Then a boy – tall, leanly muscled, with the same shock of white-blond hair as the girl – vaults straight on stage from the ground.

"Sheen Garnett," he says, and I realize with shock that they're siblings.

The commentators seem to pick this up too, because the recap plays their surprised reactions.

"Brother and sister!" Caesar's voice is saying, laid over the cheering from the District 1 square. "It's been a long time since we've had a pair like that, isn't that right, Claudius?"

"Yes, yes," Claudius agrees, and he looks elated with this development. "The last ones were the pair from Three in the Seventy-Ninth Games, I remember clearly." The tribute's faces pop up on screen, the same pictures they must have shown in their arena when they died. Both of them sullen and with pinched faces, identical black hair and pale skin. The boy looks much younger than the girl, though.

"Ohhh, oh no, is this what I think it is?" Caesar puts his hands over his mouth in mock despair. "They're twins! That's our second pair of twins from District 1, after twin Victors Gloss and Cashmere. This will definitely take this year's Games to a whole new level. Hopefully One can bring back another twin this time, that's bound to bring in a lot of sponsors."

The end of his dialog is cut off so the screen can show District 2's seal. The square in Two is nowhere near as decorated as One's, but the crowd still looks animated. I can see last year's victor, Amadeus, in the back of the stage. Even from here, through the screen, he looks menacing. I suppress a shiver.

The escort calls a name, and a girl about my age walks coolly up the stairs. The volunteer calls out before the girl can shake the escort's hand. She looks like a good match for Amadeus. Black hair cut in a sharp line at her chin, black shirt and pants that accentuate her attractive figure. Steel grey eyes that look more deadly than a knife.

The fact that Amadeus looks very smug is setting off warning bells in my head.

Again, the boy is called, and the volunteer replaces him. And I see what Amadeus is so pleased about. The boy looks like a tank. He must be six and a half feet of hulking muscle. When his arms cross, they bulge like sacks of grain.

Caesar on the commentary sounds almost scared, too. "That's a fearsome pair from District Two! Pandora and Nero. Oh, I am certainly placing bets on Two this year."

"We're only two districts in, Caesar," Claudius jokes, and they both laugh.

I feel sick. What is Penny thinking, back home?

District Three is cut short; with barely any of the suspense they gave One and Two. There's a pair of older kids this year, which is comforting enough. It's always sad when there's a twelve year old reaped. I think even the Capitol feels bad.

They linger a little more on District 4, but it still skips by faster than One and Two. There is a pair of volunteers again, tanned, toned eighteen year-olds that look strong but not vicious.

District Five passes the same as Three. There is a thirteen year-old Reaped, though, a little girl with mousy brown hair that looks shorter than even Alsike.

Six comes out with a brute of a boy that looks more dangerous than even Amadeus. He's got this crazed glint in his eye, and even his partner looks scared of him.

Seven has a pair of younger ones, maybe both fifteen years old. They don't look too upset, though. The girl is even smiling.

Eight and Nine cut by fast, neither producing anyone of note except Nine's girl, who has to be pulled up to the stage sobbing and, when she faces the camera, is so devastatingly beautiful that even Caesar goes silent. I think of the Six boy and Nero – will they do to her what Amadeus did to Peri? I don't think for a second they're not capable of it.

Ten cuts by faster. I don't even have time to catch the names of the tributes, but they are both so underfed that I don't want to watch another second.

At last – it's Eleven. I bite my nails as I watch us jostle in the crowd. They have a bit more coverage of us, even zoom in on my face as I stand on stage next to Saffron. I look more confused than anything. Then, when they call Ree's name, I look apathetic. I'm almost thankful for that.

"A volunteer from Eleven, that's new this year," Claudius Templesmith remarks. They don't say anything specific about me.

Twelve looks like they have a fighting chance this year. Ever since Thresh's Games, I think, Twelve has been training their tributes in whatever way they can. They're still underfed, though, but they don't look as frail and helpless as they used to. There's a tall olive-skinned girl and a merchant-class boy who stand proud on stage after volunteering for a pair of crying twelve year-olds.

The recap ends, switching back to the studio feed. "Stay tuned, folks, for the tribute parades tomorrow!" They end with a little banter, and then the program segues into advertisements for all kinds of useless things.

I switch the television off. The image of the boy from Six's twisted eyes flashes like floodlights in my head. The sly faces of the twins from one, the piercing eyes of the pair from Two. I think about the tiny girl from Five, who will be a bloodbath death, I'm sure of it. I think of the pretty girl from Nine, who will die the kind of death nobody deserves. I think of Penny Fallow at home, watching the Reapings and seeing Amadeus look so pleased.

I think of the injustice of it all and I finally let the tears come.


End file.
